Authors: J. P. Donleavy
"Mrs. Martin I don't want to be responsible for Ann getting upset."
"O you don't. You've upset her enough already for the rest of her whole life, she might just as well go out there on the bridge where her father lost his life and jump. You did it to her. You could have found some cheap tramp. Thousands of them. And you have to pick on a respectable girl to do it to. A married man with children. Aren't they enough for you, haven't you got a wife already. And this building you put up to put your dead body in. I'll tell you a thing or two, sure get up, stand up, sure, Ann sure, get him his coat, exactly what I expected from your kind, all educated with fine manners and accents. As if we weren't good enough for you. My daughter comes along and you use her body for your pleasure and throw her in the gutter. Go ahead get your coat and get out but you won't hear the last of this I promise you. And take that bag with you. If you want to know, residents of this apartment wouldn't be seen dead with a broken paper bag and an outfit like that, if you want to know. Goodbye good riddance. But you'll hear more don't you worry. Decent people know how to deal with your kind, let ham go Ann, he's not doing any fast talking. Not now with me he isn't. Next time he won't be so fast with an innocent girl from a good background and respectable people."
Little creaks and groans as the elevator went down. Miss Martin stood at the door. Reached out her hand and put it on my arm. Slight pressure on her fingers. Face streaked with tears. Strange for the first time. With breathing so loud. Look in her eyes. And see friendship. And her strange distant dignity.
Snow deeper. Night darker. On this icy strip of land of ramshackle wastes and marshland stretches of Far Bollock. Throat dry. Ears red and burning. They get cold again. Ghostly waves. Big ocean has a tongue. To lick so many shores. And again this year no one will send me a heartfelt Christmas card.
Or remember
I was
A prepster
Once.
F
INGERS
spread on the window sill Staring at the afternoon Saturday sky. Up the airshaf t, through a mirror installed two days ago in the forlorn room, 604 Dynamo House. White fluffy clouds on blue and tinged in pink from a setting sun.
Saturday when there are no footsteps out in the hall. Mail no longer arriving. Save for one letter from Miss Martin. Postmarked Far Bollock.
Dear Mr. Smith.
I am very sorry for what happened on Monday night.
So long.
Ann Martin.
All week, each morning, wait for her to come to work. And lay in my tub looking up in the steam. Suicides high after the snow. When the city was hushed and still.
Standing here. Three o'clock. Wearing shoes again. Five days till the reception at Renown. Purple bordered menu. Providing a feast of baby beets and onions. Succotash. Triumph of shelled prawns. Choice of three wines and two pickles. And tureens of smoked eel. Like I gave Her Majesty. She sat stiffly when I handed over the box. She thought it was some stunt instead of the eel it was. Raised her eyebrows and said I suppose George you've heard. What. About poor Bonniface. Who was reading a book, something about bodies were the external essence of the mind. While standing on a platform at three A.M. in the rapid transit system. And he walked off die platform and was picked up unconscious from the center of the tracks.
And Thursday near the botanical gardens and zoo I visited the hospital. Sat by the Bonniface bed. His hands seemed white and strange. And all round his face a look of lighthearted resign. I heard a rustle under the sheets. He put his finger up to his lips. Then he leaned over, whispered, woof woof, Mr. Mystery. Is here.
I waved goodbye to Bonniface. And his white bandaged head. Nurses smiled. Herbert left the oranges and liquorice by the bed and I said we would come and fetch him to the reception at Renown. Bonniface rubbing his hands together said it was in earnest anticipation he waited. And would brush his teeth specially in view of the menu. Her Majesty had brought him pussy willow out of season. And he was finishing the book about the body essence, interrupted by his plunge into the tracks. Things at the airport, without him, he said, were reptilian.
Sky all the darkest blue now. Whole day long and hungry in this forlorn room. Slowly tearing up letters, sheets and sheets of paper and documents. Legal loops, summons and twists and twirls from Shirl. Rip them up. One's hands so glad to tear them all to little pieces. Because yesterday. I walked away alone from Dynamo House. Nothing to protect me from the outside world. No appointments. No plans. I took a taxi to the Grand Central Station to make believe I was catching a train. Stood there in the emptiness looking up at the balcony where once I saw that head moving, tall, blond and collected above the rail. Christ, Miss T, why don't you come running for a train right now. And miss it. And meet me.
Miss T never came running. And from the station yesterday I walked along a marble hall, brass bannisters, up the steps and into the soft lights and carpets of the hotel nearby. Sat on the red leather curved seats under the gilded clock. Hands in lap. Must have looked the quietest man who ever lived. And two feet came up and stood in front of me. Small faint brown high heels. Exquisite, expensive. And before I reached the ankle bone. I knew who it was. Could hardly look up. No braveness. No courage. Until she said.
"You can look up George. I'm not going to be unfriendly."
"Hello, Shirl."
She sat down beside me. This dark meeting place under the clock. Put the back of my hands up to my eyes because I was going to cry. And I said, my dear chap. You can't. You better not. Because people will be looking. Caught like this, by ShirL Just as I was. Without friends. Laughter. Conversation. What was I doing here. Aren't you waiting for somebody. No one. And before it could happen. Anything at all. Shirl looked at me with her brown eyes. And said you look so tired George. Her hand reached up to touch me. Even though it never left her lap or the inside of her beautiful soft leather gloves. She never said, why don't you come home, George. Back to us. But she said, as she sat, with her shoulders and hair, and even the crossing of her legs. She said come back. I know, George, you can't come back. But I'm saying come back. In this little moment, while only two of us are in the world. George, you never give in, do you. Sit even in your worst terrible sorrow, all alone. George, what I want to say to you, even though I'm not saying it, that I don't care, I won't mind, I'll forgive even as I ought to be as cruel as you, I won't be, lay your head on my mother's bosom, I'll kiss it there, you foolish thing, you ran from me, and built up your hard stone castle to shut us out because I know there were just some simple little words I said in fury and hurt just to put a whip lash around your heart which had been flailing mine. And I said that. You foolish thing, because now I know. You do. You want so much for traffic to stop for you. When you're dead. I know you do.
In that hotel lobby. Dimly lit counters, blue soft carpets. Husbands, lovers and wives. Trains deeply below. Worming their way under us. The deepest deepest brown. Shirl's eyes. All the women one loves. And between the hearts, time seeps. To leave us strangest of strangers as she spoke.
"How have you been George. Really tell me. I want to tell you something. The law is not going to come between us. Do you hear what I'm saying. The law is not going to come between us. Even though I have to starve with the kids. Do you hear what I'm saying."
"Yes."
"And do you think I mean it."
"Yes."
All as simple as that. And we went for a drink. Then took her to her train. Bought her a newspaper. She stood on the train platform, looking out the glass door, her eyes glistening.
Faintest tick of the big desk watch hanging from a nail in the wall of 604. George Smith turning from the air-shaft window. Silence of this Saturday. Takes a minute to tear up a year of litigation. An hour to burn a century of it. What is that tapping. Four minutes past four. Stomach aches. Emptiness. A funny whisper. Tapping. Seems so real. Someone at the door. A knock. Is that someone in Miss Martin's room. Felt that whisper. Words breathed on the back of my neck. Is that Miss Tomson. Here. Yesh. Come back to work. Look and see. Smithy, I'm here, outside. Thought you'd like to hear from me. Where. Here. I know youVe got no one now, so I just thought I'd come back, wasn't doing anything this after* noon just four past four. Just some ice skating but I can do that anytime. So here I am. With a whole load of change for the petty cash. Tapping and ticking. There's no one here. Lift up my hand and put it in front of my face. Thumb and finger on the brows. I was talking to her. As she came back just then. Ice skates slung over her shoulder. Standing right there. In the doorway. I'm Sure I said gee. Word I never use. She was wearing a suit. Flat walking shoes. A tweed like winter heather. Thin string of pearls. Soft blue sweater to match her eyes. Could have put my arms around her. My head in the nape of her neck. Slight little shake she gives. My balls. In her hand. Whole world goes golden brown. When I said to her, God forgive, for all the women I made love me. Sure he will Smithy. He'll forgive you. He knows you've got no philosophy, no conscience. And you know, Smithy I don't care that you don't. I sort of like that. Look where my principles got me. I was robbed. What about tea. For two. Just past four.
George Smith turning back to the window. Arms were reaching out around nothing at all. Mirrored sky. Orange blue with evening. Little voice blew whispers was mine. My hands back on the window sill. Lick my lips.
Treasury Building clock. Tolling six. Smith walking out the long dark corridor from 604 and down the stairs. Briefcase swinging. Stick tapping. Sound of steps down, all so hollow, all so shut and Saturday. On the apron of Dynamo House. Looking up. Blue crisp sky. Faint new moon just in the crack there between the buildings. White crescent floating on a purple and gold flood of light. Herbert sees me. Waves. Get in the dreadnaught wearing a pair of black gleaming shoes again. My toes back to normal.
"To The Game Club Herbert."
"Any particular way, Mr. Smith."
"Let's go along die river. Looks a nice night."
Monstrous black vehicle slowly purring out of the empty street, along by the only sign of life. The Fish Market. Loading trucks. Big jackets of stevedores. Bumping tug boat.
"Like a little music, Mr. Smith."
"All right, Herbert. If you can find something soft."
In the windows of other cars. Get dead staring glances. A financial hero. No longer looking for worship. Or a splatter of lead bullets on this glass. Piers for ships pushing out on the flat water. Lights blink off across this deep tidal strait. Under the bridge that goes out to Bonniface and Miss Martin. Far Bollock, Fartbrook, points east. Whose mother jumped down my throat. Words say so little unless they're legal. Look at colors. Taste them all as candy. Bonniface likes liquorice so much. Left him that day. Herbert dropped me at the zoo, while he had a haircut. And I stood for a moment thinking beside a great bronze gate. Man ambled up in the crisp cold. Said what a rou6 you'd be back at the asylum.
"Like this music Mr. Smith."
"Fine."
Last night I dreamt a dream. Condemned to die in two days. Rushed to the telephone to tell the newspapers to publicise and prevent the unbelievable execution of George Smith. For some piffling item. Shirl said lay your head. Sink my nose in the softness of her mother's bosom. Shirl cried over our first baby clutching it in her arms. Give me my baby. It's mine, that little parcel of life.
Smith in mossy tweed and mustard yellow tie. Dark blue socks above calf leather shoes. On the left there, my favorite building, Steam Corporation Station. Often stood looking at it, walking there afternoons from Golf Street. Selling heat to buildings far away through hot pipes under the street. Sigh with this music. Every fifteen minutes the local news. Over your station of the stars. Drink clip joint raided, customers doped and beaten. Strange this announcer's voice. To go back over the words.
"—And a bulletin just received — Dizzy Darling the model and sometime actress whose wedding was to take place shortly to Claude Grace—heir to die mercantile fortuner—was killed late this afternoon on highway twenty two south of Bedford —when her car she was driving hit a tree —Miss Darling was dead before arrival at Bedford Hospital —she was alone at the time and no one else was involved in the accident. The weather man says, clear skies —"
Dreadnaught slowing. Traffic streaming by. Herbert turning to look back at George Smith. Who nodded. Raising a hand. To wave. All right. Drive on. Past the skyport for planes. Under high arches of bridges for masted ships. Trains tunnelled deep in the salt water estuary.
Ahead we turn left. Faint music again. Following the news and weather. Clutch sadness out of a grey evening sky. Bark will be torn off some tree. Bring her baby roses. Fresh green leaves and stems. A distant dust of tiny thorns. To fall. Pink and blue. Wash and iron my shirts.
What is a guy
But a prick
And you write
Your name
On it
With a wedding.
And no wedding
What is a guy
But a prick.
She said.
Funeral Services
of
Sally (Dizzy Darling) Tomson
November The Twenty First
at one forty five o'clock P.M.
On Board "Sea Shark"
Pier Seven, Foot Of Owl Street
Burial At Sea
A
GREEN
uniformed page leaning to whisper to George Smith at one fifteen P.M. high up in the silent loneliness of The Game Club.
"Mr. Smith, your car is here, front entrance."
Smith picking up the sable black coat. Lain over a chair. Old clock's tinkle of chimes. Stare out this window to the water tanks on roofs, see other windows dark and empty.
Her picture in all the papers. Her career. Sobbing and broken bodied before she died, her golden hair out across the road. A green sweatered arm on her chest. On a sunny Saturday. Under the biggest bluest sky. A stranger held her clenched fist. If she had the strength to sob. She had the strength to live. Young doctor, hand on her shoulder in the ambulance, said she was dying and she didn't want to die.
Smith taking the elevator down to lobby and street level. Passing by the litde light at the reception desk, the message board. A chill wind coming through the revolving door. Sidewalk blowing up a winter dust. Herbert waiting at the end of the canopy.
Dreadnaught gliding away past the lunch time crowds. Crosstown by the bare trees of the park. Awake to a phone call early this morning. Miss Tomson's lawyer. Would I be present at six P.M. this evening at Miss Tom-son's apartment to hear something to your advantage. So many new buildings abuilding along the river, to look down on the creeping ships. And a wrecking ball one day will knock down Merry Mansions. Make a nice pile of rock and Hugo will be out of a job.
At the foot of Owl Street. A line of black cars turning into an iron barred gate. Held open by police. Flashbulbs popping. Her casket under a bright flag surrounded by flowers. Barge out in the river carrying trains. Two tugs towing a tramp steamer. On this wooden wharf these gleaming cars one behind the other.
Four blue sailors lowering a chain softened with green felt. Swinging the boom from the tender above the hearse. Great heavy lead container rises up swaying against the sky. Moves over the stern and steadied by hands comes down to rest. Your life was full of celebrities. And once you said, don't ever Smithy, join with those guys who after pulling some ruthless deals, sit back in the warmth of luxury looking everywhere for love.
The flat shores disappearing one hour and a half out across the water. Sea choppy. Sound of vomiting along the rail. Snow flurry sweeping the deck. Get sheltered here against the wind. Claude Grace hatless between two elderly black women when he climbed on board. Rather nice out here. Taste of salt on the lips. All the others gone inside to get hot beef tea. With a shadow left at my side.
"Hi friend. Remember me, Ralph. Did you know the real Sally. It's cold. You never know. Goes out of the house healthy, not knowing her minutes are numbered. Maybe this isn't the time. But there's a rumour. She left you money in her will. Is it some kind of mistake. No insult meant. Beautiful girl like that. The legs alone. Say she slept with a different guy for every year of her age. You want to know how old she is."
Big white liner passing, passengers look so small at the rail as they wave. On this latitude and longitude of green blue ocean. Of all the suprising things, Miss Tomson has been in the military. Maybe saluting in there on the satin with one of her long tapering arms. And I've got a little simple prayer because you also had religion. From the port stern side of this ship. See the horizon of thin white fingers with a sunlight glint of red and gold. Those were the tip top towers in which you lived. Slip out from under that flag to the fishes dolphins whales, room to yawn and stretch. Command to fire the rifles. One splash in a rolling sea. And bubbles and wreaths are left. But maybe you'd like to know that at night seals sing. They come up out of the water with their big sad eyes.
Good news
In the sweet
By and by.